


Burning Ice

by Leaves_on_the_ground



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 14:32:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16410263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leaves_on_the_ground/pseuds/Leaves_on_the_ground
Summary: How long have they been married? Neither of them enjoys each other’s company any longer; perhaps one never did. Why they are together?





	Burning Ice

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there who’s reading me. This is another small fic I wrote before getting back to “There’s a place”.  
> Anyway, this drabble is my reflections on John and Yoko’s relationship. Should I mention that it’s all fiction and unreal? 
> 
> Inspired by Max Richter -- On The Nature of Daylight.

Her voice is cold and empty, and so are her eyes. He’s intimidated of staring into them for too long, these black glass beads, devoid of expression, compassion; that piercing stare is too much to bear.  

He hardly ever understands her emotional state, neither he’s able to read what’s on her mind. She always hides her feelings, and he wonders whether it’s on account of her cultural past or she has always been like this. He doesn’t know.

They barely speak when they’re alone, nor they show affection. She doesn’t want to sleep with him, but she doesn’t mind him having affairs. And he doesn’t mind, either.

How long have they been married? Neither of them enjoys each other’s company any longer; perhaps one never did. Why they are together?

He can slap her, smack her in the stomach, or twist her arms; he can pull her by her hair and drag her along the floor; he can call her ‘bitch’, and ‘cunt’, and ‘witch’; he can humiliate her, take her down a peg, proving his supremacy. He can do any of these things, but no matter how hard he tries, throwing harsh and belittling remarks, he can never get any reaction from her, some kind of response that she’s, too, capable to feel something, anything. 

Although it doesn’t matter. What matters is something else, something impalpable and elusive, the question: whether love was involved.

Did he love her? Or did he love the state of being around her? This temporary haze of madness with short intervals of painful sobriety. All those intoxicants had befuddled his mind and numbed his perception of reality. Uppers and downers. Stimulants and hallucinogens. Intentionally, he’d been poisoning himself.  

He thinks, she made him dispassionate, unresponsive, indifferent.

He thinks, she made him like her.

He’s no longer human but a shadow of his mirror self-image. He wonders what it’s like to be dead more than ever before, languishing on the windowsill of his apartment, too spacious and too vast to feel cosy, like home. He doesn’t care if he’d fall from the 5th, 6th or whatever floor.

The uncertainty is torturous, but there should be a way out, which he cannot find. It seems that everything is interlaced with one another.

When had everything gone irreversibly wrong?

If there was a turning point in his life when something had been done or quite the contrary – that hadn’t happened – that could have changed his destiny in the opposite direction, perhaps it was the day he hadn’t had the courage to tarry and to act.  

Then… laying down in high grass, on a semi-sunny day, in May or maybe it was August, in the heyday of their buoyant youth.

“What are you thinking?” Paul asks, grazing his fingers along John’s hand, fleetingly, as if not on purpose, his touch is soft as a feather. A ladybird has flown into Paul’s dishevelled hair; it’s now clambering along his raven strands: a startling contrast between the red beetle and black locks. His fair complexion is likened to the colour of milky froth, his eyes are greenish brown -- his eyes are warm and bright.   

John smiles, but there’s a trace of incongruous sadness in his gaze. The day is coming to an end, and soon the dusk will grow scarce. They soon will part, and the spring is almost over, too.

(or maybe it was summer)

A fleeting moment of the past, the recollections of ticklish grass and thistledown against the skin, of Paul’s alluring smile, of specks of setting sun on his nose and chin, of whiffs of air, of flowers in bloom, of being there, just they two.  

_What am I thinking? --_ John asks himself, his eyes are zeroed in on Paul.

“You,” he says without hesitation. “I’d like to stay here a little bit longer with you.”


End file.
